


Smoke

by greysynonyms



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Abuse, Achievement Hunter Heists, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Language, F/M, FAHC, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, Fluff, GTA, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Angst, I REGRET NOTHING, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Los Santos, POV Second Person, Psychological Trauma, Regret, Rough Sex, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Stealing, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-03-26 12:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19005772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: In a world ruled by Soulmates and Soulmarks, you choose to follow your own fate. You have no idea who you're hurting in the process.





	1. Chapter 1

     You don’t have a soulmate.

     You’ve never  _ wanted  _ a soulmate.

     You think it’s bullshit that the world just randomly gets to decide for you who you should love, and you’re expected to fall in line with it no questions asked. 

     Unfortunately for you, the world seems to revolve around them. You’ve spent your entire life surrounded by people with soulmarks who have found their second halves, or people who have dedicated their lives to finding them. It’s pathetic how much people are willing to miss out on in order to find imaginary bliss. Strangers tell you how great it is, how happy they are, how  _ perfectly  _ fate picks partners. You’ve seen people who have never met suddenly embrace at a bus station after recognizing a mark--it makes you sick.

     The worst part is that people constantly ask to see your mark, ask if you’ve found ‘the one’ like it’s any of their business. Nobody is ever interested in who you are, your hobbies, even your  _ name _ . All they care about is the reminder, the reassurance, that true love does exist.

     The look on their faces when you tell them you’re markless is always filled with a deep pity that you  _ don’t want _ . They look at you like you’re broken, like there’s something  _ wrong  _ with you; some of them sneer and turn their nose up at you as if they can pretend that fate never chose anyone for you because you aren’t worthy. The ones who don’t shun you offer you heartfelt condolences that you don’t need, and recoil violently when you tell them as much. Everyone thinks you’re out of your mind for not being devastated.

     You’ve gone to see therapists at the insistence of friends who were worried about your mental state--worried that you were in denial about the so-called ‘beauty’ of soulmates because you would never have one yourself. Eventually you just closed yourself off to everyone and hid behind a stony mask of callousness. No one can ever fix you because you  **aren’t** broken, and you’re tired of people thinking you are.

     You’re tired of people assuming that _ you’re  _ the problem.

     You’re tired of people not even bothering to ask you  _ why _ you don’t believe in soulmates before showering you with their unwanted empathy.

     Some people in the world are unlucky--their marks fade from vibrant color to dull and lifeless before they have a chance to meet their other half. You’ve heard that the pain of losing a soulmate is one of the worst pains a person can experience, but it doesn’t stop it from happening. It doesn’t stop car accidents or natural disasters or murderers. Your parents were two of the unlucky ones, two people who had lost their soulmates early and settled into a broken, loveless marriage to fill the emptiness left in their hearts by a cruel twist of fate.

     They stayed together for the appearance of it, so that they wouldn’t have to relive the horrific days their marks faded over and over again. You have to admit they were excellent at holding face in public, they played the part of doting soulmates perfectly and people would positively swoon at their sad, made-up love story. Behind closed doors that perfect façade gave way to screaming matches, throwing objects, fist fights, and  _ blame _ . So much blame. 

     And you had to play the part as their precious, ideal little daughter for  _ years _ . You nodded your head along with anyone who told you how lucky you were to have parents who were so in love, who told you how exciting it was that you would some day have the same. You dreaded the day your mark would appear on your body. You spent your entire childhood watching two people tear themselves apart because they let the universe decide they could no longer find happiness in anyone else, and you were  _ not _ about to do the same.

     You ran away when you were eighteen; your parents may have failed you in every other aspect, but they at least taught you the skills you needed to make it on your own. They taught you how to steal, how to hide, how to  _ lie _ . Along with a crumbling, fake marriage and the never-ending pain they endured every day, they were also criminals. They told you that they needed to rob convenience stores, needed to carry guns and wear masks--they needed it in order to feel the adrenaline, to feel  _ any _ emotion other than anguish.

     In school they taught you about soulmates and the natural highs they cause in their partners, how when nearby they increase the production of endorphins to the brain. The death of a soulmate is rumored to have the opposite effect. You’re convinced that it’s a stupid excuse to continue mourning, because  _ of course _ someone is bound of be depressed after losing a loved one (even if it’s a loved one they’ve never met).

     So you went along with their wishes, you learned how to smile wide in front of strangers in the daylight and fire a gun with precision at night. You helped them with whatever they wanted right up until the day it all became too much--that night you snuck out your bedroom window and never looked back.

     You spent the first eighteen years of your life witnessing first-hand every reason soulmates are bullshit. Everyone loves to tell stories about how wonderful they are but all you’ve ever known because of them is heartache and pain. Soulmates turned you into the cold, heartless criminal you are today, but, you suppose, you’re grateful for that. You don’t need the distraction.

     You stand in front of a cracked floor-length mirror in your tiny little apartment and stare at the scar that spans your hip, tendrils of it sweeping across your stomach, ribs, and down your thigh. It’s concave and abstract and jagged at the edges, the phantom reminder of a design that you see behind your eyelids whenever you sleep, whenever you blink. It stares up at you with contempt and it  _ aches _ . 

     You scoff and tug on a pair of tight pants, feeling some small amount of relief when you can no longer see the ugly reminder of fate.

     No, you  _ don’t _ have a soulmate.


	2. Chapter 2

     The eighteenth birthday is considered by the world at large as the most important of all the birthdays. You, personally, think that your twenty-first was your favorite but nobody cares about your opinion on the matter because the day you turn eighteen is the day you get your soulmark and that's all that really matters to anyone.

     You remember learning about the day you'd get your mark in bedtime stories, like a fairytale. Authors made it seem romantic and parents and teachers made it seem even moreso, always talking about how you can feel the immediate connection and warmth, how it will feel like it's pulling you in the direction of your other half, how the pulsing of the mark mimics the heartbeat of your one true love.

     Nobody warned you about the pain. None of the stories told you that you would awake the night of your birthday screaming in agony as some higher power carved a pattern into your flesh, or that the mark would  _ bleed _ so much, or that it would take  _ so long  _ to appear. You remember crying out for your parents, for anyone, to help you--it felt like someone was trying to carve your side open with a hacksaw and you just wanted it to  _ stop _ . You grasped at your leg, dug crescents into your skin with your nails in a futile attempt to displace some of the pain.

     Nobody warned you about the complications, the hospital visits, the medications and countless IVs that would scar the insides of your arms and backs of your hands. The doctor told your parents in a hushed voice that you were only having problems because of the size of your mark. Typically people would only end up with a quarter-sized design on their back or arm--you were unfortunate enough to earn a canvas that covered a massive portion of your side, pieces of it zig-zagging over the intricate (and important) veins in your leg. The doctors had never seen anything like it.  _ No one _ had ever seen anything like it.

     You have to admit it was beautiful, like a watercolor tattoo in blue and black ink. It was soft like smoke, wispy and delicate and fluid when you moved. At the center of it, hidden in the pillows of dark clouds, was a skull that looked back at you every time you spotted it in the mirror. It was ominous, something that your parents would frown at whenever you wore shorts around the house, but you can't deny that it felt important to you. 

     It scared the shit out of you.

     You had told yourself as long as you could remember that once your eighteenth birthday arrived and your mark inevitably showed up, you would feel  _ nothing _ . You were convinced it was a hoax, a mind game, that if you didn't buy into it you wouldn't feel the things everyone told you you would.

     You were wrong.

     You felt  _ everything _ . When the pain finally ebbed you were left with a dull throbbing that didn't fall in line with your heartbeat. When you grazed your fingertips over your newly painted skin, it felt as though something reached back. The  _ you _ that you'd always known began to fall apart at the seams because suddenly, being alone wasn't an option anymore.

     You did your best to ignore it, to ignore the gravitational pull that would sometimes cause you to miss your next footstep and stumble. It was like the stupid thing  _ knew _ you weren't searching for your other half and was trying to help you along. But you didn't want it's help, you didn't want  _ it _ at all, and you screamed as much into your pillow every night when the pulsing wouldn't let you sleep. 

     You began to hide it. You wore long pants and dark shirts with fabric that couldn't be seen through and told all of your inquisitive friends who didn't already know that you waited all night on the evening of your birthday but nothing ever happened. Your parents disapproved, of course; they wanted their sweet child to be able to show off her new evidence of a soulmate to all of their friends (despite the fact that they themselves couldn't stand the sight of it); they wanted to use you as a reputation booster. 

     Statistically speaking, the top candidates for the hiring process are always those who have already found their other half--because they have a happier demeanor and a more positive outlook on life, because they're just 'better suited for the role.' After all, happy people only ever want to be around equally happy people. And your parents were grasping at those straws, trying to be those people (because people who have  _ lost _ their soulmate are less likely to succeed than people who haven't found theirs yet).

     The whole thing makes your stomach churn. The world is so dependent on something that people can't even control.

     When you refused to show off your mark to everyone, the response wasn't kind. Knowing that you had your mark and that you were  **rejecting** it rather than rejoicing turned you into a social outcast faster than you thought possible; friends you had known since childhood, close friends you had  _ confided _ your secrets about your homelife to, looked at you with disgust. They didn’t understand--they would  _ never _ understand.

     You hated your mark, hated that you had to look at it every day and feel it pull at your heartstrings; you hated that there was someone out there who was waiting for you as if you  **belonged** to them. You hated that you didn’t get a choice, that the only way to have a good life, a good job and good friends, was to accept it and move on. 

     It should be your choice who you love.

     Your choice whether or not you get a stupid soulmark when you turn eighteen.

     Three weeks after it appeared you couldn’t take it anymore. You remember standing in your bleach-white bathroom covered in blood, a kitchen knife in your quivering hand, a pile of ruined flesh in the sink. Everything hurt; your nerves were screaming where the knife had torn away chunks of inked flesh, but stronger than that was the staggering sense of  _ loss _ . Your waist and hip and leg should have hurt the most, but your heart throbbed violently with a deep pain you had never experienced before. Every second you stood in that room, staring down at the remains of what was once your soulmark, the throbbing got worse and worse until it was all-consuming and you screamed, begged, pleaded desperately for it to stop.

     The surgeons weren’t able to salvage the mark--had never been trained to because no one would ever dare do what you had done. They managed to piece together the shredded remains of muscle, tendon, and skin that was left behind on your body but the scar was deep, a gross reminder of what you gave up. You heard whispers spoken to your parents telling them that you carved nearly to bone in some spots and you felt  _ glad _ because it meant there was no tissue left for the mark to cling to.

     You wanted it  _ gone _ .

     You had apparently done a good job assuring it was.

     Your parents couldn’t look at you, wouldn’t even help with the healing process without yelling or angry tears. You learned to manage it yourself, to clean it and bandage it and clip the stitches when it was finally time to remove them and they wouldn’t drive you to the hospital. They treated you as though you didn’t exist. You chalked it up as just another skill you learned because of their negligence.

     When the wound was mostly-healed you packed your bags and left.

     Eventually the pain in your chest subsided, faded away into nothing. You would never have to worry about soulmates or marks or any of it ever again; for the first time in your life you were  _ free _ .

     You began telling people you were unmarked, that you didn’t have a soulmate.

     It wasn’t a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. We finally get some FAHC action in the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

     Things began to change the day you met the Fake AH Crew.

     You liked to consider yourself older and wiser after spending so many years in isolation, just barely scraping by. Despite the fact that you weren't able to get a day job--who would've thought that the mention of being markless would be a deal breaker?--you managed to survive by bouncing at a strip club on the weekends. You had built up enough muscle over the years to put large men to their knees and you looked smoking hot while doing it in your stilettos, which was overall a win-win for the club you worked at. It was satisfying to see large, drunk men so helpless, and the owner paid you well for your services; he had even enrolled you in a few self-defense courses in order to get you properly trained despite the fact that you had taught yourself everything you needed in order to succeed in your roll. Your job combined with the funds from your robberies on a month by month basis was more than enough cash for you. You didn't need much; you were content with your spot in life because it was _your own_ and nobody else's. You liked to believe that your turmoils were a thing of the past.

     You could never have expected what was to come.

     You stood in a small convenience store in the center of Los Santos, waiting your turn to pay for a Red Bull that you hoped would keep you alert for the rest of the night. You had a little job lined up for yourself that you needed to be awake for, one that you had been planning out for the better part of two weeks. You'd always been meticulous with your jobs considering it was your main source of income; you liked to make sure you knew the exact layout of the buildings, the schedule of the employees, the locations of any and all alarms and security cameras. You spent all day every day studying and planning everything out perfectly in the weeks before your robberies, and because of that everything was always smooth sailing.

     You were in the middle of thinking about the entrances and exits of the building you were going to hit that night when the bell on the front door chimed. And then chimed, and chimed again. By the time you counted six jingles your curiosity got the best of you and you glanced up from your cell-phone.

     You came face to face with the barrel of a shotgun.

     “Hands up, sweetheart,” a deep voice warned you, muffled through a dark mask.

     You felt a little jolt travel up your spine when you met his eyes, blue and _bright_ and surrounded by black smudges beneath the detailed skull mask that hid his face from view. It felt strangely… familiar, but you had no time to think about it before he was nudging your chin up with the end of his gun.

     The other men rushed by you and you just barely managed to hear them demanding the keys from the manager of the store around the ringing in your ears.

     “I said _hands up_ ,” the man in front of you warned, his voice taking on a dangerous edge as he took a step closer to you. Fuck, this guy was _huge_ , he stood a good foot taller than you and his shoulders and chest were broad and muscled and powerful.

     “My hands are full,” you shot back instead of holding your tongue like someone who valued their life. "I don't think I'd hurt you too bad with this little can even if I tried." You pointedly looked down at the energy drink and dollar bills in your hands. You were expecting something angry, maybe even that he would shoot you and spare himself the trouble, but you weren’t expecting his low chuckle.

     “You’ve got guts, kid.” He reached up, taking your chin in his gloved hand and squeezing hard enough to make you wince, “ _Don’t_ make me tell you again.”

     Something in his eyes changed, his pupils blew wide and swallowed up almost all of the pretty blue of his iris. It was unhinged and _terrifying_ and you immediately dropped what you were holding and stuck your hands into the air.

     "Good girl," he praised.

     But you didn't drop the items out of fear--no, you dropped them out of _shock_ . Since the day you cut the mark from your side you'd felt nothing but a dull melancholy about _everything_ . You tried watching the movies that made you happy as a kid, tried reading stories and imagining new worlds, you tried going to amusement parks and riding the biggest coasters and ferris wheels you could find. None of it made you happy, or sad, or afraid, or _anything_.

     This man, with just one look, made you _feel_ for the first time in nearly twelve years. You couldn't help but feel like you'd found the missing piece of the puzzle--you just needed something louder, something more treacherous, than sneaking into empty buildings at night. You leaned forward, feeling the cool metal of his gun dig into your windpipe. Maybe what you needed all along in order to feel again was to face death head-on.

     Something you didn't recognize flashed in his eyes when he realized what you were doing, but before either of you could comment on it the alarms in the store began blaring.

     “Fuck!” one of them yelled. “Who triggered the goddamn alarm?!”

     “Goddammit Gavin!”

     One of them squawked, “But Micoo--!”

     “No fucking names!” another, a woman, yelled over all the noise.

     You watched with mild amusement as the group descended into madness. “Cops patrol this area around this time,” you said in vague warning to the man in front of you. “They’ll be here any second.” You knew because you'd tagged that store before, but you did it at night under the cover of darkness instead of in broad daylight the way they were.

     Their confidence was inspiring.

     As if one cue, sirens began wailing outside.

     "Told you."

     The masked man looked at you quizzically, keeping his feet firmly planted instead of rushing to help his crew. "Who are you?"

     "Just someone trying to buy a Red Bull."

     He seemed to like that answer. He looked like he was going to say more but one of his crewmates grabbed his arm and started demanding he work crowd control. “But I’m on a murder break,” he reasoned nonchalantly.

     Another voice, higher-pitched and a little squeaky, “For god-sake, just get rid of the cops! Lil J, help him out!"

     "I'm on it boss!"

     “Then what's the point of a murder break?” the masked man asked it as if it was the most obvious question in the world, and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the strange interaction.

     “Jesus _christ_ , we can’t take you anywhere.”

     Another chuckle, "Fine, but don't blame me for what you started." His roaming gaze returned to you, looking you up and down predatorily. “How would you feel about being a hostage, sweetheart?”

     “Well I’d rather not,” you answered honestly, well aware that the question was rhetorical. You were so entranced by the playful look in his eyes that it took you a moment to recognize the sound of a gunshot going off _inside_ the store. When you turned your head you saw blood splattered against the wall where one of the cashiers had just stood; you watched as a bullet tore through the head of the second cashier before she even had the chance to scream for help.

     You were going to die an unremarkable death in a tiny convenience store, you were convinced of it the second you laid eyes on them. A crew like that, as methodical and ruthless and sure of themselves as they seemed to be, wouldn’t leave witnesses behind. You knew it, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to put up a fight.

     As quickly as you could before the man in the skull mask could get his hands on you, you reached into the back of your belt and pulled out the small handgun you kept holstered there in case of emergencies. You trained it between his eyes and took a few steps away from him, using his surprise to your advantage. “I told you I’d rather not be a hostage,” you told him with a smug tilt of your head.

     “Whoa, what the fuck?!” the female of the group yelled. “Where the fuck did she get a gun?!”

     "It's my gun," you answered helpfully. "Did you really think you were the only ones who came prepared?"

     "She's a damn criminal herself!" a heavily accented fellow, one of the crew who hadn't spoken yet, bellowed. "That's bloody brilliant!"

     You cracked a smile at the innocent amazement. You were well aware of the fact that you had several guns trained on you, but your eyes didn't leave the skull mask. His shoulders were tensing, coiling up like a spring about to snap.

     You heard an exasperated sigh. "Look, we just want to get the money and get the fuck out of here. We're all gonna end up six feet under if we don't hurry the fuck up!"

     "Uh, guys?! A little help out here?!" the one they had called 'Lil J' yelled from the doorway.

     You could see the bright flash of sirens shining in through the window and the sound of bullets and shouting in the background. You knew that you had an opportunity as the crew turned to acknowledge their friend's request (all but the masked man whose unwavering gaze had the hairs at the back of your neck standing on end). You knew it would be easy enough to shoot one of them in the shoulder, weaken their offense, catch them off guard, duck and cover and let the cops take care of the rest--they _probably_ wouldn't choose to go after you over escaping with their lives. At the very least you would take one or two bullets to the arm or leg, at the most--you stare at the shotgun that's still aimed at you--you'd lose a limb, or maybe even your life.

     You recognized an opportunity to flee, but you knew that fleeing meant never _feeling_ again. You would never be able to pull off something like what they do on your own without getting seriously injured, or caught by the police. You worked hard for your freedom, bled and cried for it, and you weren't about to give it up for nothing.

     "Duck," you said shortly.

     His eyes narrowed, "Believe it or not, big gun beats little gun every time. I thought you were smarter than that."

     You smirked. It was clear that he didn't expect you to move, wasn't at all aware of what you were capable of, because you took two light-footed strides forward, grabbed his gun in a strong grip with one hand and flattened the palm of your other hand before jamming it into his nose. It crunched but you paid no mind as you pivoted, aimed your gun up over the masked man's shoulder and fired off a shot that whizzed by his ear, past his crewmates, and into the head of an approaching police officer.

     The Fakes started at you in shocked silence. You looked up at the masked man, who you were standing chest to chest with after your little stunt, and you were pleasantly surprised to see that his blue eyes burned brightly, impressed even as the blood from his nose poured down his neck out the bottom of his mask.

     "Holy shit! She just fuckin' saved your ass, Lil' J!" one of them shouted after a tense moment. "And she kicked Ryan's ass like it was _nothing_! What the fuck is happening?!"

     "That was a hell of a shot," Lil J muttered, looking back and forth between you and the dead cop. "Um, thank you?"

     You lowered your weapon and watched as they all relaxed despite the fact that they were all still standing in a store they just robbed, around the bodies of the people they just killed, with cops waiting to arrest them outside. "You're welcome." You turned your eyes back up to the blue ones staring a hole into your skull, "Sorry about your nose, but I told you to duck."

     He hummed and raised his gloved hand, his fingers catching at your belt loop and dragging you that much closer to him. "Do it again and I'll make you clean the mess with your mouth," he said, low and intoxicating.

     Your eyes flickered to the blood dripping from his mask and something that you had no name for told you to move-- _demanded_ that you move. Your gun clattered to the tile floor and you placed both hands against his chest as you leaned in, swiping your tongue against the edge of his mask; copper gathered on your tongue along with the faint taste of latex, and something deep in your brain _purred_.

     "What the _fuck_?"

     "She's a damn lunatic!"

     "Sister, did you just _lick_ the Vagabond?! You have no idea where that mouth has been!”

     You stepped back and swiped your thumb over your lip, completely ignoring the disbelieving shouts around you. "Don't tempt me like that," you whispered to the masked man, giving him a playful little wink. The thrill of being surrounded by cops and criminals, of feeling his shotgun pressing dangerously into your hip, had you feeling like you were floating on cloud nine. Again you were expecting that he would shoot you--at least you would die happy, actually _happy_ \--and again he surprised you when he shoved his weapon into your arms.

     You brushed your fingers across the cool metal reverently; it was a high-quality piece of machinery, by far more expensive than anything you owned.

     “You know how to use that?” he leaned down so that he could whisper it into your ear, voice still slightly muffled but much clearer due to the proximity. He nudged the mouth of the skull mask against the skin of your throat and the image of his teeth piercing your flesh flashed behind your eyelids.

     “Yeah, I think I can manage,” you agreed breathlessly, “ _Ryan_.” You had heard one of them shout it earlier and found yourself eternally grateful for their lack of secrecy when you watched his pupils blow wide.

     “Why the fuck did you give her another gun?!” the boss cried dramatically, popping off a few shots of his own into some approaching officers. “Have you seriously lost your goddamn mind?!”

     The Vagabond lifted a hand and petted his fingers through your hair. “She’s fun,” he replied simply. You giggled when the boss just rolled his eyes, apparently used to the ridiculous antics of his crewmates. "You feel like helping us get out of this alive, Red Bull?”

     “(Y/n),” you hasilty blurted. You didn’t know what possessed you to give him your name--but you also didn’t know what possessed you to protect a member of their crew, or to lick the **blood** off of a total stranger’s face. The only thing you knew was that you felt _alive_ for the first time in ages.

     “(Y/n),” the masked man repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue. The was he spoke it made goosebumps prickle across your arms. “We’re the Fake AH Crew.”

     "Happy to make your fuckin' acquaintance," the boss grumbled. "Now would you mind waiting 'till we're safe before you keep trying to fuck my best shot?"

     "I'm flattered," Ryan teased without missing a beat.

     "You won't be the best shot for long," you replied much to the amusement of the rest of the crew judging by the low series of ' _oohs_ ' and ' _ahhs_ ' that followed. You looked around at the woman and the men who surrounded you, watched as they killed cop after cop until everything outside was silent. They were reckless, efficient, and judging by what you’d seen they were also _idiots_. You couldn't help but smile; apparently a little less planning--a little stupidity--was what you needed all along. "It's a pleasure to meet you all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° ) pretty happy with this one.


	4. Chapter 4

     You're at a bar, sitting at a round table with the rest of the Fakes. Your drink sits half-finished on the table in front of you, condensation slowly gathering around the edges of your glass. You're out celebrating a heist-well-done and Geoff has insisted on paying for everything. You think it's going to be a good night. 

     “What does your mark look like, love?”

     You feel your body tense up and the smile drop from your face; you always dreaded the day this question would come. You knew that it would, that the second the Fake AH Crew began to refer to you as a  _ friend _ \--a term of endearment that means more to you than they’ll ever know--it would open the door to questions about your soulmate.

     You can’t blame them for being curious, especially when several of them have already met their other halves. It’s only natural to want happiness for the people you care about. It's only natural to ask questions about something that everyone else in the world deems so damn important.

     You just wish that, for once in your life, you wouldn’t have to lie. You want to let go of the secrets, to tell them about your parents and the pain and how you  _ mutilated _ yourself because you don't believe in the concept of soulmates, but you don't want them to reject you the way the rest of the world has.

     “I’m markless,” the words feel sour on your tongue as you speak. The term draws the attention of the rest of the crew.

     “ _ Markless? _ ” Jeremy repeats. “Is that even possible?”

     "Yes." The way you say it is cold and harsh and when you see his brown eyes widen you immediately regret it. "Sorry, I just… I get tired of people asking and treating me like a freak when I tell them."

     His big hand finds yours from across the table and gives it a gentle squeeze. "There's nothing wrong with you," he says it so sincerely that it makes the lie sit even heavier in your stomach.

     "Yeah, who the fuck gave you that idea?" Michael asks, casually taking a sip of his beer. "Just cause we've never heard of it doesn't mean it's wrong."

     "Markless," Geoff rolls the word around in his mouth. "That sounds pretty badass if you ask me."

     You feel fingers trail over your thigh before a warm palm settles on your leg; the weight of it is comforting in a way that the words from the others aren’t. You lower your eyes and look over at Ryan through your eyelashes--he isn’t looking at you at all, but his thumb rubs reassuring circles into your skin when he notices your gaze. You lift your glass and suck down the rest of your drink before you speak again, enjoying the burn of the liquor in your throat. “Thank you all,” you say sincerely. “No one ever reacts positively to that.”

     They all nod solemnly in understanding; Ryan’s hand doesn’t leave your leg.

     You take a deep, steadying breath. You know you shouldn’t underestimate them, shouldn’t ever doubt them, especially after offering you such a kind reaction instead of the pity and despair you usually see, but you just  _ can’t _ tell them the truth. The way your parents and the doctors and nurses looked at you after you removed your mark was beyond pity, it was  _ disgust _ . You felt ostracized, vile, and you don’t know what you would do if you ever saw that expression on the faces of the people surrounding you now.

     “Do you ever wish you had one?” Gavin queries. 

     “Gavin,” Jack admonishes, “don't be rude!"

     "It's okay," you tell her with an appreciative smile. "Honestly, I'm glad I don't have one." You twirl your empty glass, wishing it would magically fill again. "I mean, sure, it's tough sometimes to see soulmates together and know I'll never have that, but I find it freeing that I have the right to choose for myself." It isn't a complete lie, but it isn't the complete truth either. 

     "So you think there are others like you?" Ryan finally speaks up. "Others who are markless, I mean?"

     You swallow thickly around the lump growing in your throat. "Well, yeah… I'd hope so, at least." Your leg feels oddly cold when his hand slips away from you.

     "Well I hope so too," Geoff agrees. "Because I think you're a fuckin' catch." He smirks slyly at you, "You sure you don't have a little green star hidden somewhere on you?"

     You feel heat burn in your cheeks and the image of your lost, smoky mark flashes behind your eyelids. "Sorry Geoff, but I'm pretty sure."

     "Bummer." He winks at you and you smile sheepishly back at him. 

     You have a feeling he used that line to steer the conversation back to something light (you’re positive he and everyone else can sense your distress), and you’re relieved when it works and the spotlight drops away from you. You give the tattooed gentleman a grateful nod and he returns the gesture knowingly.

     The fact that he and the rest of the crew are genuinely interested in your mark because of  _ your _ happiness makes you feel  **wrong** inside. You think about how easy it would be if you had your mark, if it matched one of theirs--the first people to accept you for who you are without any ulterior motive. And even if it didn’t, even if your soulmate was some boring office worker, at least you wouldn’t have to be  _ lying  _ to the only people who matter to you.

     The thought that you _ love _ all of them, your little makeshift family, strikes you suddenly; it’s an emotion you’re not familiar with at all, but you recognize it for what it is. You’ve never wanted to share anything about yourself or your past with anyone, you’ve never felt bad about deceiving anyone. You’ve never risked your life for anyone, or had anyone risk their lives for you. Your heart jackhammers in a way you haven’t felt in  _ ages _ and you clutch your chest, frightened. 

     Geoff adopted you into his crew (his  _ family _ ) in a heartbeat after learning you were just like the rest of them--a misfit with nowhere to go and a very specific set of skills that would be useful to the crew. You had impressed all of them that day at the convenience store, and apparently proved yourself worthy after risking your ass to save their lives repeatedly after they invited you to join them on their next few jobs.

     A medic in your own right, you taught yourself over the years how to sew your own wounds shut and how to bandage them properly to stop the bleeding. You're adept at stealing medications from pharmacies and hospitals and carry an arsenal of pills, salves, wraps, splints, and disinfectants (among other things) with you at all times. You're quick on your feet and  _ smart _ , and that’s exactly what they needed.

     Not to mention you're strong, and an easy distraction for men and women alike to keep their eyes on while the rest of the crew empties registers and back rooms. You love working with them, love the  _ thrill _ that it brings. The weight of the gun in your hand, the way doting expressions turn to terror when someone realizes their about to be shot, is almost as fulfilling as actually pulling the trigger.

     The Fakes have given you a purpose.

     They  _ trust  _ you, and you can’t trust them enough to tell them the truth.

     Somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind you start to wonder if you made the right choice all those years ago. Your hand subconsciously drifts to your ruined side and you squeeze at the ragged tissue where your mark once was. Your parents only cared about it because it would help their reputation, and your friends only cared about the story itself not about who it was attached to. Now you sit around a table with a group of people who actually care about  _ you _ . They care about your health and your happiness and they're so incredibly genuine--you can't think of a single time they've lied to you. You have a suspicion that, even if you had your mark, they would care less about what it meant and who it was for and care more about the fact that you would find the happiness they think you deserve.

     “Are you okay?” Ryan asks. You have no idea when he leaned so close to you or when his hand found the small of your back. He must have noticed your strange behavior while you were zoned out.

     You slowly release your grip on your leg and chest, taking a shuddering breath as you lower your arms into a more neutral position. “I’m okay,” you say, but you can’t find your voice so it comes out breathy and quivering.

     His presence is overwhelming, the smell of his skin and cologne strong in your nose, the heat of his hand on you suddenly scalding hot. 

     “I just… I need some air.” Your chair screeches against the wood floor when you push away from the table. You don’t spare any of them another glance before spinning on your heel and heading towards the door. You can hear their lowered voices whispering as you walk away, reprimanding Gavin for pressing the subject.

     You know it’s not his fault but you don’t stop them. You need them to believe you’re uncomfortable with the conversation so that it doesn’t come up again, so you selfishly continue out the front door. As soon as the cool air hits your skin you realize that you have tears in your eyes. You scrub angrily at them with the backs of your hands.

     What the fuck is  _ wrong _ with you? You need to pull yourself together--it’s not like you haven’t told the lie a million times to people in the past. You’ve spent your whole life convincing others that you’re markless, this should be no different.

     But it _ is _ different. You’ve never _ felt _ so much in your entire life and you don’t understand what’s happening, what’s changing, why it’s happening now. You want to shut it off like you did all those years ago; it was so much easier then.

     You walk home, alone and cold, ignoring all the worried calls and texts from the rest of the crew. You can’t think straight, and you definitely can’t talk to any of them right now. Solitude is the safest place for you--the more distance you put between them and yourself, the less your chest aches. 

     You don’t know what that means, and you won’t for a while.

     That night you dream about dark, billowing smoke and the agonizing screams of someone who lost something precious to them forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh whoever thinks italics can be overused can pry them from my cold, dead fingers.
> 
> I'm currently ironing out the next chapter of Feeding the Flame (I hope to have it up this weekend!) but until then, I hope you continue to enjoy this little story!
> 
> Thank you all so much for the support, I've been having a lot of fun writing this.


	5. Chapter 5

     “I’m  _ fine _ ,” you stress irritatedly. 

     “You’re not _ fine _ ,” Ryan shoots back with the same tone. 

     You huff as he forces you onto your stomach and into the position he wants so that he can undress and clean your wound. “I can do it myself.”

     “You can’t reach it.”

     “You haven’t even let me try--” You shift to get away from his hands and watch out of the corner of your eye as he gives you a look that screams ‘I-told-you-so’ when the movement makes you wince. You gnaw on your lip in order to maintain a neutral expression as his fingers find the edge of your shirt; when he begins to harshly tug it up over your head you panic and roll onto your ruined side in order to hide it from sight. "Stop, stop,  _ please _ !"

     His hands leave you immediately, an equal mix of surprise and suspicion written across his face. "What's wrong?"

     "It just…" You scramble for a quick, easy cover. "You were hurting me," you whine. Not a lie--the jerky movements had created a sharp pain in your injured shoulder.

     Thankfully, the psuedo-lie seems to work. “What was that? I thought you were fine?”

     Your teeth grind together, his sarcastic voice renewing your efforts to escape him; you don’t need him to take care of you if he’s going to be an ass about it (or potentially expose your biggest secret), you don’t  _ need  _ him to take care of you at all. You rock your body left and right when you feel his fingers begin to prod at your bandage through the fabric of your shirt.

     He’s clearly not in the mood for your childish behavior judging by the snarl that rumbles up his chest. The bed shifts dramatically when he puts his weight on it, and suddenly there is a hard knee digging into the center of your back to keep you pinned under him. You hear the metallic zip of a knife seconds before it cuts through your shirt and exposes your shoulder. 

     "Hey, this is one of my favorite shirts!" you complain, trying once more to wiggle free despite the pain it causes.

     " _ Stop _ moving," Ryan warns, jamming his kneecap against the vertebrae in your lower back and creating an entirely new pain.

     “How is this fair?” you complain, the corners of your lips pulling into a frown when he tears the gauze from your injury. You’re completely powerless beneath the weight of him--as much as the thought makes your blood run hot, this isn’t exactly the ideal scenario.

     “You shouldn’t have jumped in front of that bullet,” he says, suddenly somber as he works. He cleans the bullet-wound with a solution that stings as it seeps into the damaged skin but you don’t flinch away from it. You’ve never been in the habit of letting other people treat your injuries, never really had anyone willing to try, so you can’t help the nervous tension thrumming under your skin.

     You resign yourself to your fate, pressing your cheek into the mattress. You can still see the red and blue flash of police sirens in the back of your mind. “My shoulder versus your chest? I’ll choose my shoulder every time.”

     “Because you’re an idiot,” he hisses.

     You giggle, light-headed from the pain, “You’re welcome.” You’ve been shot before during previous jobs but it never prepares you for how bad it hurts; the pain is always sudden and incredibly intense. You’re just glad that the bullet made a clean exit--you’ve had to dig a few out of yourself before and it’s one of the worst pains you’ve ever experienced. At least, one of the worst pains since the night you turned eighteen.

     “I’m  _ not _ thanking you,” his voice grinds. 

     “I’d do it again,” you egg him on. You remember feeling like the world was in slow motion as the bullet tore through the air towards Ryan--you were stranded together in the middle of the street surrounded by cops after a wrong turn during a heist. The fear and trepidation had made you delirious and you know, without the shadow of a doubt, that you would’ve jumped in front of ten bullets for him, easily. “Bullets, knives, fists,” you list, “I’d take them all for you.”

     It’s eerily silent for a long stretch of time. You don’t even feel any indication of breath where he hovers over you so you twist your neck to look over your shoulder at him.

     After seeing it so many times, you recognize the shift in his eyes instantly. Ryan always likes to hide behind Vagabond when emotions start to overcome him--you know because he confessed it to you during an evening when you both couldn’t sleep. 

     You’ll never forget that night. He offered to take you for a drive and you gladly accepted, if only to get a way for a little while. Plus you enjoyed spending time with the man, not that you would ever admit it. The evening ended in a high-speed chase with the cops through the desert that had you both grinning from ear to ear. It was while hiding in an alleyway, adrenaline pumping through your veins, that you asked about the Vagabond. You couldn’t get a rein on your morbid curiosity about the cold-blooded man--and it seemed, from all of your interactions with him, that the Vagabond couldn’t contain his curiosity about you either.

     The memory makes you smile. “Oh, c’mon V,” you reach back with your non-wounded arm to grasp at the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Not even a little thank you?”

     You’re on your back with his hand around your throat before you can draw your next breath. He’s straddling your waist, staring down at you with manic expression as he presses you down against the sheets of the hospital bed. “You could have  _ died _ ,” he bites menacingly. 

     You feel your skin prickle with excitement, “Would you have cared?” You already know the answer, but you want to watch him squirm.

     The hand at your neck squeezes, “No.”

     “Then why does it matter?”

     You have a complicated relationship with the man, one that the other crew members caught onto right away. The first time you saw the Vagabond on the job you were  **hooked** \--he's so methodical, so confident, so strong, a man who knows what he wants and will do anything to get it. The first time he took his mask off around you it felt like all the air had been knocked out of your lungs; you weren’t aware you had a type until you saw the long, sandy hair, the bright eyes surrounded by dark paint, the beard that followed his chiseled jawline. You still struggle with looking him in the eye for a prolonged time without the mask because he's fucking  _ gorgeous  _ and you're afraid you'll jump him if you stare too long.

     You intrigue him, he  _ fascinates _ you, and as the years passed you became his favored teammate and he yours--you're similar in your cold indifference and never hold each other back. As much as it's terrifying to watch the two of you work, no one can deny that you're efficient.

     No one can deny the tension, either; it's palpable in the air whenever the two of you are in the same room. Geoff had demanded that you just fuck and 'get it out of your system' so that you both aren't so distracted, but everyone knows it's an unspoken taboo to fool around with someone else's soulmate. You think it's idiotic because it's  _ your _ body and you should be able to choose who you fuck without fate interfering, but you can't do that to Ryan. You know he has a mark even though you've never seen it with your own eyes--you've never met anyone without one. 

     He leans into you, close enough that you can feel his breath caress your lips when he speaks, “It  _ doesn’t _ .”

     You push up on your shoulders, ignoring the pain so that you can ghost your lips over his, your eyes shining, “ _ Liar _ .” You wait with baited breath for his next move. This is a dance you’re more than familiar with, be it with Ryan or with the Vagabond, but neither of you have pushed the boundaries of your friendship yet. 

     His eyes drop to your mouth and back up, but then he’s growling a low note and pushing himself off the bed. “If you want to patch yourself up so bad, be my guest.”

     Your head thuds against the mattress as soon as the infirmary door slams behind him. 

     You ignore the way your side aches as soon as he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ryan is almost too sexy????


	6. Chapter 6

     “You know it’s like a hundred degrees out, right?” Michael asks incredulously. “And, y’know, there’s a fuckin’ pool?”

     You lift your sunglasses up onto your forehead and pin him with an unamused look. "You do realize Geoff also isn't in the pool, right?" you gesture to the boss-man who is sitting in the lounger next to you, flipping through a book. "Why don't you bother him?"

     Geoff waves a dismissive hand, "Michael, I'm your boss, don't fuckin' bother me."

     "Geoff is dressed for the weather, love," Gavin pipes in, leaning his arms against the edge of the pool. "Micoo is just worried about your health, isn't that right, boi?"

     "Yeah, I'd rather not have to drive you to a hospital after you die of a heat stroke," Michael agrees.

     "I second that," Jack raises her hand.

     "Yeah, c'mon, (y/n)!" Jeremy yells, splashing a little water towards you (and then immediately apologizing when you  _ and _ Geoff raise your brows in warning). "Get in the pool, we can play chicken!" When you shake your head his big brown eyes grow wider with his faux-pout. "Aw, come on! I'll even give you the advantage and team you up with Ryan!"

     You slowly turn your gaze towards Ryan, then immediately look away when his bright eyes catch your own. He's sitting at the far end of the pool under the shade of an umbrella, his feet kicking at the water, his sandy hair twisted into a bun at the back of his head; his arms are folded against his chest and his dark v-neck hugs his biceps deliciously.  He's a fucking Adonis and he clearly knows it--your face flushes at the thought of ever sitting on those wide shoulders of his. “As fun as it sounds," and it sounds like a  _ lot _ of fun, "I’m feeling perfectly cozy right where I am.” You hope that will be the end of it, and you glare pointedly at Michael for starting the whole stupid conversation in the first place.

     “Bullshit," the redhead spits. "There's no way you aren't roasting."

     Los Santos is in the middle of an unusually long heat-wave and you’re relaxing on the top of a private building owned by the Fakes; Geoff made sure it was decked to the nines for occasions exactly like this with a pool, lounge chairs, and a fully stocked bar. And while everyone is enjoying the cool water, you’re busy sitting under an umbrella wearing capris and a tank-top. You shift in your seat and feel the sweat gathered at the small of your back, making the fabric of your shirt cling uncomfortably to your body. You want desperately to jump into the pool, to feel the relief of the cold waves on your overheated skin, but you can’t risk it.

     You’ve always had to be careful around the crew--they’re a crafty bunch, and impossibly clever when they don’t feel like being complete idiots. The problem is, you aren't necessarily good at keeping your secret a secret. You trust them  _ now _ , after knowing them for so long, working with them for so long, and almost dying at their sides on several occasions, but you weren't as open minded when you met them. You told them you were unmarked the night at the bar and you can't suddenly reveal that you've been lying the whole time.

     It shouldn't be a big deal, but you’ve seen Jack and Caiti, Gavin and Meg, Michael and Lindsay all happy and doting and you can’t bring yourself to admit to them that you could have that if you wanted but you  **don’t** . You know they would never understand, not after they’ve found their soulmates.

     After years of working with, hanging out with, and practically  _ living _ with the same people, it would be hard for them not to notice your strange choice in attire. You have no good excuse for wearing long pants every season of the year, for never wearing a bikini or pajamas around them. You tell them that you don't wear revealing clothing because of your scars--which isn't necessarily a lie--but you can tell that they don't believe you. Even so, they never press the issue too much.

     That is, except for Michael.

     Everyone seems to accept the fact that you have your secrets, but every time he gets the chance Michael likes to remind you that he's never heard of anyone ever being unmarked. At first he was sympathetic, just like the rest of them, but as time moved forward and he got to know you better he couldn’t help but question you. Things just weren’t adding up in his mind.

     You wipe the sweat from your brow and stand, hoping that moving to the edge of the pool and dipping your feet in will end the uncomfortable conversation. You kick some water at the red-head and grin mischievously when he sputters. "You happy now?"

     "I will be…" he smirks and you're suddenly very much regretting your decision. "As soon as you get your ass in the pool!"

     You don't have any time to react before his arms find your waist and drag you forward into the water. Over the panic of suddenly having water in your lungs or ruining your clothes is the knowledge that you can feel your shirt lifting and floating around you. You grab at it with frenzied motions, pulling it down over your waist and hips before you stand and cough up the fluid you had inhaled. 

     The crew is utterly silent--but they should be  _ laughing _ , shouldn't they? Laughing at Michael's antics and your poor, soaked form. Panic and anger and sadness and regret swirl to life so suddenly within you that you take a few stumbling steps forward, the sloshing sound of the pool water the only noise that can be heard on the rooftop. You find the freckled man and stare hard at him through the water droplets that cling to your eyelashes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

     You're sure this is what he wanted, what all of his prying questions and suspicious glances were leading to the entire time. He never believed you were unmarked and was constantly looking for a way to prove it--judging by the look on his face, he's not exactly sure what he's proven now. 

     Michael's eyes widen and something akin to regret and fucking  _ pity _ warp his features.

     You feel your entire countenance shift darkly. 

     “I didn’t think--”

     “You didn’t think  _ what? _ ” you snap. “You didn’t think there was a reason I dress the way I do? I fucking  **told** you--”

     “I’m sure he didn’t mean it, (y/n),” Jack says softly, wading towards you with her arms outstretched as though she's going to try comforting you.

     You see it again in her eyes, the pity. You recoil away from her like you’ve been burned, pushing yourself tight against the edge of the pool. “It doesn’t matter what he meant.” You turn furious eyes back to Michael and you  _ don’t _ feel bad when you see him floundering for something to say. “Big congratulations on finally getting what you want," you say icily, pulling yourself out of the pool and glaring around at each and every pair of eyes now trained on you as if daring them to say something. You don't even know how many of them saw it--clearly Michael did, but how many of the others? Not like it matters, secrets clearly don’t stay secrets around this group.

     "(Y/n), wait!" Gavin calls after you as you begin to march towards the stairs.

     You don’t stop, not until you feel a strong hand grab ahold of your bicep and force you to. You see knuckles adorned with intricate tattoos in your periphery and a massive lump grows in your throat--there’s no way you can face Geoff, not when he’s been such a caring, understanding father figure to you for so long.

     He speaks your name in a whisper but you jump at the sound regardless. “What happened to you?”

     You feel everything begin to boil over, the truth sitting like lead on the tip of your tongue. “Geoff,” your voice cracks, “I  _ can’t _ .”

     He squeezes your arm gently and pulls you backwards, away from the steps and closer to him. “You don’t have to hide this from us.”

     “You don’t even know what  _ this _ is.” Your hand snaps to your side, squeezing at the scar that is now more visible to everyone as the wet fabric of your shirt clings to the outline of it.

     “Please,” he sounds desperate, “tell me.”

     Your sorrow dissolves into anger--anger because you lied, anger because you took a knife to yourself all those years ago. Anger towards the crew for being obsessed with soulmates just like everyone else in the world. Anger because it’s  _ easier _ and you’re a coward. You rip your arm away from Geoff violently and turn to face him fully. You don’t meet his eyes as you lift your shirt and reveal the top of the massive scar that mars the majority of the right half of your body. You tug down the waistband of your pants to uncover the rest of it, feeling nothing but numb as the sopping material falls around your ankles and leaves you incredibly bare to all of their astonished gazes. “My entire life,” you start shakily, keeping your gaze fixed on the tiles under your feet, “I was told how soulmates are supposed to be everything, how they’re supposed to make your life so wonderful and happy. They  _ steal _ away your freedom and you're supposed to be grateful for it, you're supposed to pretend that it's  **okay** that people only care about you if you have one! My parents lost their soulmates when they were kids and they hated each other.” You feel a tear drip from the tip of your nose but you don’t move your hands to wipe it away. “They  _ hated _ each other, couldn't fathom ever caring for each other because they weren't each others  _ soulmates _ ," you spit the word hatefully. "Do you know how  _ fucked up _ that is?!" You can feel yourself getting hysterical but now that the flood doors are open you can't stop. "When I turned eighteen…” you subconsciously dig your nails into the scar tissue on your leg, “it fucking  _ hospitalized _ me." You turn sharp eyes on them and see the gears begin to grind in their heads.

     "Wait…" Geoff rubs at his temple, confused. "I don't understand."

     "It tore open my  _ veins! _ " your voice pitches drastically and you double over when you remember how horrible it felt. You still have nightmares about waking in a pool of blood. "It hurt so  _ fucking _ bad and it just wouldn't stop, it--it lasted  _ hours _ \--!"

     "Sweetheart…" Jack's voice is laced with concern and sadness.

     Tears are flowing freely now, rolling down your cheeks to your chin in rivulets. "I didn't want it," you stutter and hiccup around your words as sobs being to shake your body. "I didn't want it--I never wanted it so I...I…"

     "You cut it off," Michael finishes.

     You look up at him and what you see in his eyes is no longer pity--it's heartbreak. "I cut to bone here," you trace the edge of your hip, "and here," your fingers travel along the outside of your thigh. "They would have had to amputate if my mom hadn't found me sooner." Your fists clench at your sides, your nails digging crescent moons into your palms. "I was young and I was stupid and I can't--I didn't--" Your words dissolve into weak sobs; you don't even know what you're trying to say anymore. 

     Arms are around you suddenly and your initial instinct is to fight, to kick, to get away, but then a hand finds the back of your head and pulls you down into a tight embrace. Your cheek lands against a wet shoulder as a strong arm winds around your waist and holds you close. "You don't have to say anymore," Jeremy tells you.

     "Jeremy," you snivel, wrapping your arms around him and allowing yourself to take the comfort from him that you never got from your parents or friends or  _ anyone _ in the past. Your knees quake like they're about to give out but his hold on you is steady. You lean into him until he's holding more of your weight than your own two feet. "I'm  _ so sorry _ ."

     "Kid," Geoff breathes, and then he's standing with you too, circling both you and Jeremy in his tattooed arms and pressing his lips into your forehead. "You have nothin' to be sorry for."

     For a moment it feels like everything will be okay. For just a single second you think that they'll be the first group of people to actually understand, but then--

     "Yes, she does."

     Your eyes snap open, staring at Ryan through the tears that cloud your vision. Of all the people you expected to understand, he was at the top of your list; he was the  _ only _ one on your list. Hearing those words in his deep voice makes something in your chest clench.

     "Ry-bread, now isn't exactly the time to be an arsehole," Gavin reprimands. 

     "Gavin, he's not--" you try to reason (it may not have been the reaction you were expecting from him but it's one that you're more than familiar with and, after all he's done for you, you'll defend him to your death) but Ryan's voice is booming as he yells over you.

     "She stole away her soulmate's choice!" He's pissed off, feral rage swirling dangerously close to the surface behind his eyes. He points an accusatory finger at you and you feel a small surge of relief that he's currently unarmed. "Did you ever even consider  _ their _ pain?!"

     No, you didn't--you made the easy, selfish decision for yourself and left your soulmate to deal with the consequences alone. It's like Ryan is reaching into the darkest corner of your mind and vocalizing all of your biggest fears; you can faintly hear the pained screaming from your nightmares replaying in your head.

      Jeremy's arms protectively tighten around your frame as Ryan stands from the ledge of the pool. You cling helplessly to him and to Geoff, who has turned his back in order to place himself between you and the approaching menace. You've never seen Ryan act like this before, never seen his cold, calculating stare directed at you. 

     "What's gotten into you?" Jack asks, stepping out of the pool herself and bravely putting a hand on the Vagabond's shoulder to stop his movement. She and everyone else seem to be just as taken aback by his outburst as you are. 

     "What's gotten into  _ me?! _ " he yells incredulously. His expression is wild and unhinged. "She let me believe she was dead for  _ years! _ "

     Your heart grinds to a stop, the breath leaving your lungs on a rattling exhale. Your eyes find his, your expression frightened and anxious and  _ pleading _ that it’s not true. Not Ryan, anyone but Ryan--it  _ can’t _ be true.

     He reaches over his left shoulder while you watch and grabs at the fabric of his shirt angrily. “Skull,” he speaks low and even. “Smoke.”

     You can see it like you were staring at it in the mirror yesterday. When your knees wobble this time, your legs actually do give out--you collapse completely against Jeremy as regret tears an unforgiving path through every inch of your body. You can’t speak, can hardly breathe under the crushing weight of what you’ve done, who you’ve hurt, who you’ve  _ been hurting _ for over a decade. You only manage to gather yourself once you see him walking away--if you let him leave now, you aren’t sure you’ll ever see him again.

     You rush forward out of Jeremy and Geoff’s grasps, ignoring the rest of the crew as they shout at you to stop. “Ryan,” you gasp haggardly, grabbing his wrist to stop him.

     Faster than you can get the apology out, he spins around and has a switchblade knife pressed tight against your windpipe. “ _ Don’t _ ,” he warns. The tip of the blade pierces your skin when he angles it further into your throat. “If you follow me, I’ll show you real pain.” He tears himself away from you and then he's gone.

     You collapse onto your knees. You know that you'll never forget the look of hurt and fury and  _ betrayal _ in his eyes. You're such an idiot. You should have known that your selfishness would have consequences--you should have known that fate would find a new way to punish you. 

     You should have known you would fall in love with your soulmate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boi did I love writing this. I liiiiive for the angst. I hope you all enjoy as much as I did!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr, friends!  
> greysynonyms.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

     Time moves forward; months pass like molasses, slow and dark-- _ hopeless, _ your scar screams at you,  _ it’s hopeless _ . Worse than the pain and anguish of knowing you’ve fucked everything up is the feeling of utter  **emptiness** . At least before you met the Fakes you could feel the shadow of certain emotions, never strong enough, never potent enough, just a taste that always left you wanting for more, but it was  _ something _ . Now you feel nothing--no happiness, no anger, not even sadness; your tears feel pointless but they keep flowing no matter how much you want them to stop. You’ve been alone for as long as you can remember, but you’ve never felt so alone in your entire life. 

     When the sun sets your nightmares keep you awake until it rises again like constant, never-ending reminders of all the horrible things you’ve done, of the devastated look in Ryan’s eyes when he realized you were supposed to be his. You’ve tried talking to him,  _ apologizing _ to him even though you know that there’s no apology great enough and no reason for him to forgive you, but you still need to  _ try _ \--you need to do something because you’re fucking  _ miserable _ . 

     You attempt to corner him and force him to listen but he’s strong enough to shove around you when you do. You try to convey messages to him through the rest of the crew but they stumble back to you within fifteen minutes, occasionally beaten and bloody, with apologies and echoes of death threats from the Vagabond should they try again. You send him texts, write him letters, wait outside his door in the dead of night only for him never to return from his 'midnight jogs'. Even with all your persistence, he manages to avoid you like the plague.

     You begin to miss the blue of his eyes (the tone of his voice, the rumble of his laugh, the smell of his cologne, the feeling of protection he gave you) faster than you care to admit.

     You never meant to hurt him--it was never  _ about _ him, but that's exactly the problem. It should have been about him, about both of you, but you were so wrapped up in your own little world. You were so dead set on the idea that soulmates were a bullshit scheme that everyone bought into because it's what they were taught. Every time you thought about someone waiting for you, anger would coil up inside of you like a hot wire; but now, when you imagine that it's  _ Ryan _ who was waiting for you all that time, the man who understands you more than anyone, made you feel secure and protected for the first time ever, vouched for you and bled for you and  _ killed _ for you, it isn't anger that you feel. 

     You were young and stupid and never in a million years would you have thought fate might actually choose  _ right _ .

     And now, you suppose, it's too late.

     You hardly speak a word to anyone, even though the rest of the crew is surprisingly understanding and reassuring. Their smiles never quite reach their eyes anymore when you’re around, and you know that it’s less about you and more about the fact that you  _ hurt  _ a member of their family.

     They tell you repeatedly that Ryan will come around, that he just needs time, but the scar where your mark used to be tells a different story. Every night when you lie in bed the ache in your side amplifies until you're screaming into your pillow for it to stop, and after the pain ends the hollowness returns.

     School taught you that the connection between soulmates is strong, but you severely underestimated just how strong the textbooks meant (just like you severely underestimated  _ everything _ about soulmates). You wonder if the emptiness that you feel is what you put Ryan through for so many years; you wonder if your agony is a mirror of his own.

     Even heists aren't enough to spark an emotion in you anymore--you willingly throw yourself into the center of the danger on purpose, in hopes that it will make you feel  _ something  _ but it never does. You take more bullets over the course of two months than you've taken in your life, but even the feeling of pain escapes you. 

     You're sitting in your room, staring at the ruddy patches of gauze on your arm, your shoulder, your waist, your calf, when your door is furiously thrown open. You slowly look up and jolt when you see bright blue eyes staring back at you. "Ryan?" Your voice is rough from underuse. "What are you doing here?"

     "I'm here to tell you to stop getting shot," he says flatly.

     Whatever hope his presence sparked inside of you diminishes. You pick at the edge of one of your bandages and mutter a quick, “Some of them aren’t gunshots…” 

     “Shot, stabbed, punched,  _ whatever _ ,” he replies irritatedly.

     “Why do you care?" You know you're in the wrong, that you have no right to be short with him, but it doesn't stop you. "It's not like you want anything to do with me now, anyway." How long has it been since you've heard him speak at all, let alone to you?

     "You're right," he says in a sure-fire way that makes your heart clench painfully, "but fate decided to tether us together and I have to deal with it, so  _ stop, _ " he moves closer, _ "getting" _ his hands hit the mattress angrily, " _ shot _ ."

     You snort a laugh, leaning up into his face with a forced sneer. "We both know that I'll do whatever I want. It doesn't matter how you feel." A sharp pain like a slap resonates across your hip and you silently curse whatever it is that thinks it can control your destiny. Of course you're lying--Ryan matters more to you than  _ anything _ in the entire world, but you've already ruined your chance at happiness. 

     "It never has to you, has it?" he asks quietly. For a moment, just one brief instant, you see emotion flicker in his eyes--desperate, pleading emotion.

     You remain outwardly resolute even as you feel your internal walls crumbling away. “No, it hasn’t.”

     He chuckles bitterly. “So, what? Now your plan is to hang around and torture me until you end up getting yourself killed?”

     “ _ Torture _ you--?!” You can feel the argument brewing in your belly because being so close to him--being in _ love _ with him--and not being able to properly apologize or even  _ speak _ to him without seeing him roll his eyes and stalk away is positively killing you. You know you were wrong to do what you did, you’ve never felt such a deep sense of regret (and  _ fuck _ whatever it is that lets you feel the pain when Ryan’s around), but avoiding the problem is only serving to make the problem worse. 

     Judging by the darker-than-normal bags under his eyes, you assume he must feel the same.

     The bed dips further as he puts more weight onto it, nearly hovering over you now. “Do you have any idea what you put me through?!” His voice raises with the question, his dull stare sparking to life with the same emotions you saw that day on the roof when everything went sour.

     You have some idea; Geoff sat you down on a night when everyone else went out and spilled everything he knew about Ryan to you. You know that the soulmark also hospitalized him when he turned eighteen, and that the manifestation of the Vagabond corresponds directly to the weeks after Ryan thought he’d lost his soulmate. You think about what Ryan confided to you--that he hides emotions behind the mask--and it makes you ache. 

     You blink rapidly around the flood of tears but you can't stop them from rolling down your cheeks. " _ No _ ," you gasp, sniffling pathetically. You can’t keep up the front of indifference any longer, not when his presence is stripping away at your toughened exterior, breaking you down further and further by the second. "I never considered what it would do to you. I never thought about anyone but myself." Your hand finds his, your fingers curling around the larger digits, your sniveling devolving into sobs when the action makes him flinch. "I didn't mean to hurt you," you look down, unable to meet his gaze, "I never meant to hurt you, I-- _ fuck _ , Ryan," you squeeze his fingers weakly, hoping the gesture will convey what your words are failing to, "I'm  _ so _ sorry."

     "I've spent almost my entire life thinking you were dead," he says after a long, tense silence. "Do you know what it's like to have the love of your life die?"

     " _ Love of your life _ ," you mock.

     Warm palms land on either side of your face, pulling your eyes forcefully back to his own. " _ You _ are the love of my life," he growls resolutely. "You always have been."

     Your heart thunders and it's suddenly harder to breathe. “Yeah, well, not anymore.” When you try to pull away from him, to put some distance between the two of you, his grip on your tightens and his eyes flash in a way that’s all-too-familiar.

     “You being an  _ idiot _ doesn’t change anything”

     "You--you just met me, you don’t  _ know _ me, h-how would you have,  _ why _ would you--?" It's the same thing you've told yourself since the day you learned that soulmates exist: how is anyone possibly supposed to be devoted to someone they don't even know? How is anyone supposed to be devoted to someone who caused them so much suffering? But now, as you think about it, think about  _ Ryan _ and the deep, immediate connection you shared, you curse your naivety; the man could beat you to within an inch of your life and it wouldn’t change a thing about the way you feel.

     His hands turn, grasping yours and pulling them towards his face so that he can press tender kisses along your knuckles. All of his features look softer now, more relaxed, and as you wonder if that’s just another one of the effects you have on each other, he voices exactly what you’re terrified of hearing. "Because we're soulmates."

     "You can't know that for sure."

     "I can feel whenever you get shot," he chastises, reminding you of the reason he came to you in the first place. "Five times," he says, and then he points out on himself each location that matches exactly to a pad of gauze you have taped over your wounds. 

     You flush, both in embarrassment that you let yourself get injured so many times when he could feel it, and awe at the confirmation that yes, Ryan Haywood is actually your soulmate. You resist the urge to shove him away because it's what you've always done and you've never had any reason not to until now. You don't believe in--you  _ didn't  _ believe in--you've never had any reason to believe in soulmates until now. Still, you cling to the remaining shreds of fear, of doubt, because it's all you've ever known and you're terrified of being stripped completely bare in front of this man that fate tied you to. “I don’t want you to love me just because you’re supposed to,” you say quietly. 

     His laugh is surprisingly genuine. “I loved you when you lied about being markless, and I love you now even though--”

     "Even though you should  _ hate _ me," you say meekly as your brain struggles to comprehend what’s happening. Did he just say he--?

     "I  _ do _ hate you," Ryan's reply is fast and your stomach drops. "I hate that you lied to me, let me think you died, let me live with that pain for so long. I hate that you created the Vagabond, and I fucking  _ despise _ the fact that you're the only one who can get through to him."

     You curl into yourself further and further with each addition to the list, cursing yourself for your hope. His confession doesn't mean things are magically better; his love for you is forced by the universe, but his anger towards you is entirely your fault. This is what you deserve--you've said your piece, and now you owe it to him to listen to his side of things. You hope that maybe, just maybe, when it's all over there will at least be a friendship left to salvage; the thought of having to leave the Fakes, of having to leave  _ him _ , weighs heavily on you, but you'll do it if that's what he needs.

     "I hate how soft you make me feel," he says, quieter, his free hand reaching out so that his fingertips can travel the length of exposed scar tissue on your leg.

     Your skin prickles under the intimacy of the touch. 

     "Mostly I hate how fucking happy I am that it's  _ you _ ." He pulls away from you so that he can rake his hands through his hair in exasperation.

     "This is going to be a pretty complicated relationship, then." It's a bad joke meant to fill the void, but it's also a test because you need to know for sure whether or not you still have a chance.

     His eyes twinkle in a way that he can't hide. "Isn't it already?" he replies. "Do you know how frustrating it is to want to murder someone and kiss them at the same time?"

     You turn your teary eyes up towards him, wide with surprise. You think back on all the heists, all the failures and successes and the amount of times the Vagabond screwed something up because he couldn't control his bloodlust. You think about the constantly present, palpable tension between you and Ryan, how it would spiral into shouted insult matches, weapons drawn, chests heaving from exertion over some stupid disagreement. You think about the amount of times you've wanted to do  _ exactly _ what he just said and you can't help the exhausted, manic giggle that tears from your throat. "Actually, I do."

     He sees your smile and you see his smirk for the first time in far too long; your heart thuds rapidly behind your ribcage and the spot where your soulmark used to be pulses along with it.

     To think you wanted to deprive yourself of this, this feeling of elation and  _ wholeness _ . Mark or no mark, you've adored everything about Ryan since the moment you met him--you  _ chose _ him, and that's the only choice you've ever really wanted. “I never meant to hurt you,” you whisper. “I know that it’s selfish, but I… I just wanted to be able to choose for myself.”

     He huffs a short laugh, “Well you did a great job."

     The sarcasm hits you the wrong way because it doesn't sound playful and you suddenly get the feeling that Ryan somehow thinks he's not good enough for you. After everything you've put him through, there's still concern worming it's way into the back of his head that  _ he's _ the problem. You stare him straight in the eyes and put as much conviction into your words as you can, "It's always been you, Ryan. I don't care if it was fate that led us to each other, I'd still choose you." A thousand thoughts race through your mind but you can't think of the right way to tell him that you'd choose him over and over and over again, soulmate or not.

     You're finally beginning to understand your parents, their misery, their devotion to their dead partners--you'd burn cities to the ground if Ryan asked you to. You'd be lost if he ever disappeared, if the hollowness that his absence causes in your chest became permanent; you can't imagine feeling the way you feel now and living with the knowledge that he's dead.

     "I love you," you blurt, because you don't know how long this moment will last and you  _ need _ to say it before it's too late. Even if he doesn't want you, even if it makes him angry all over again (angry because you could have been together from the beginning, angry because you broke his heart), you need him to know. You reach up with shaking hands to trace trembling fingers over his cheekbones, smiling the most genuine smile you’ve ever given because, despite everything, you’re grateful for this moment.

     His hand finds of the nape of your neck, his warm fingers pressing into the twin muscles there as he drags you forward and slants his lips over yours. It's soft and sweet and the emotion behind is nearly enough to knock you over. “I’ve wanted to do that since the day you pulled a gun on me,” he admits, trailing kisses from your cheek to your jaw to your neck.

     “That’s the day we met,” you laugh.

     “Exactly.”

     You catch his lips in another kiss, putting everything you have into it--you hope that he knows how sorry you are, how  _ happy _ you are, how much you adore him. “Why didn’t you?” you ask breathlessly.

     His grin is contagious. “I was waiting for the right moment.”

     You roll your eyes, “You mean the right person?” You never really took Ryan as someone who would wait for his soulmate, but you can’t remember a single time he showed interest in anyone aside from-- Your eyes widen at the realization. 

     “I had a good feeling about you from the start,” he assures. 

     There’s no way that he knew, but his words steal the air from your lungs anyway. You think back to the day you met him, the look in his eyes when you licked the blood from his face and spoke his name for the first time, that day in the convenience store when you felt alive with excitement for the first time in your life. At the time you thought it was the thrill of the heist, the gun in your hand, death at your doorstep--now you know better.

     “Yeah,” you agree with a fond chuckle. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I had sort of a difficult time writing this chapter, so I really hope you all enjoy it and I apologize if you don't. For whatever reason, angst is always so much easier for me to write. 
> 
> I'm also sorry for the late chapter! I've been working on this story, Feeding the Flame, and a few, shorter Tumblr requests. I've also been going through 'A House Divided' and doing some much needed revisions/additions, so be prepared for updated chapters for that story eventually as well. Long story short, I've been really busy!
> 
> Only one chapter to go, it'll be an epilogue-style chapter and I promise to bring the filth, you heathens.
> 
> Thank you for sticking around <3


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